


Faces

by 09432



Category: Vermintide, Warhammer Fantasy
Genre: F/M, Minor Original Character(s), Sadomasochism, fall from grace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 20:57:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14245596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/09432/pseuds/09432
Summary: It was an uncommon occurrence for Victor Saltzpyre to share his bed. But in those times, three faces stood out to him.An exposé on love, self-destruction, and loss.





	Faces

**Author's Note:**

> More of an exercise to see if I could get a character this uptight into bed before it took a life of his own and morphed into something else. Saltzpyre x some minor throwaway OC's (if you want to consider these situations "pairings") ending in Sienna Fuegonasus x Victor Saltzpyre. 
> 
> Features themes such as sadism and assault with mention of animal death. Could be disturbing to some. If you like your Saltzpyre buttoned up and gentle, skip the second and first half of the third part of this fic.
> 
> Bonus points to anyone who guesses what Kruber was about to ask.
> 
> Would you like some religious introspection with your sin?
> 
> Special thanks to my beta-reader, who shall remain anonymous, for helping me with word flow.

**The First Love  
**

The first face Victor Saltzpyre takes to bed is the face he wants to remember the least.

He was young then, just turned twenty-two. Before her, Victor thinks now, he had not considered himself a sexual being. Witch Hunters, he felt, had little time for pleasures of the flesh, and soiling the purity of his body before marriage seemed to flaunt his privilege against the very heart of Sigmar’s principles.

In the wake of his master’s murder, Saltzpyre had found himself in Bogenhafen, dealing with the local magistrate and the merchant’s guild, the worry that the  dark powers that ruined the Teugen family would soon return—animals and children stolen off the street to leave a gristly trail of sacrifice upon the damp cobbles near the dock market.

It’s there, at a local inn where Saltzpyre is collecting information, does he meet Rosamund, a woman just barely eighteen with bright blue eyes and ashen hair, a smile always soft upon her face and half his height. She approaches him, sliding onto the barstool next to him as he spoke to the local innkeeper, telling him she has information to share, and, ever the gentleman, he buys her a drink.

He learns she is the illegitimate daughter of the Baron of Saponatheim, who once took Johannes Teugen’s wife to bed. However, the Baron, angry with Johannes’ consortion with the Ruinous Powers, watched as Witch Hunters carted off her mother and squirrelled Rosamund away to the local brothel, where she had since remained, catering to the needs of whoever sought her services. He’s unsurprised at her predicament, if not somewhat taken aback the Baron would be capable of such cruelty towards his half-daughter who seemed to have no connection otherwise to Johannes’ witchcraft. But a brothel girl is an exceedingly useful source of information, and he presses his lips to her knuckles before he leaves with promises to return should he need any more intelligence.

But Saltzpyre is still naive to the world without his Master, high on the fact a woman of such beauty would pay him any mind—that anyone would treat him kindly—and he visits her brothel twice a week, paying one single silver for her company. He refuses to sleep with her, opting instead to bring her small gifts of rich food, pieces of Empire jewellery, and holds her hands while they talk of his investigation. She, in turn, tells him of her clients—of shady individuals who must be working with Chaos Cults and those who arrive to her with their hands covered in blood.

Saltzpyre seeks every one of them out, dragging a confession from each of them.

Three months later, he’s burned no less than ten men.

It’s two days after he’s built the tenth pyre does he receive his first kiss, where Rosamund tugs on his hand and brings him out into the rain outside the inn. She’s wearing his prayer beads around her neck, and she laughs as her hair sticks to her face, knocking his hat off his head when she wraps her arms around his neck and brings him down to kiss him. It’s a new feeling for him that sparks heat in his spine and leaves his heart fit to burst from his chest, and she presses against him, pulling them both against a wall, a leg wedged between his own as she bites at his lips, pushes a tongue into his mouth that makes him groan. She tastes like spring and rain, and though she is small against his frame, he feels bereft and empty when she pulls away. She winks at him, stroking the contours of his face, promising that, when the time is right, she would teach him more. And he promises, in turn, once his work was done, he’d free her from this bondage and place a ring upon her finger.

She keeps him on the edge of temptation for four more months, where she helps him intercept correspondence from the Baron’s couriers that speak of his son’s sacrifices and blood magic—of stealing women from houses to turn a profit. He’s furious with this news, and travels twenty-five miles north of the town to Castle Grauenburg, where he spends three days torturing a half-thought out confession from the Baron’s son while the ruler wept and begged for his child’s innocence (“But you do not weep for your daughter, do you?” The Baron has no idea what he speaks of).

He returns to Bogenhafen after he’s built an eleventh pyre and the Baron is deep in mourning.

It’s when writing a report back to his superiors in his room at the inn does Rosamund greet him, asking him—just for the night—to hold her and chase all the horrors away. Any protests to wait until he has a ring upon her finger die upon his lips when she presses against him, all soft curves and urgent in her need.

She spreads him out on the bed, her hands light on his body, eyes drawing over his frame long and lean, and where the world hadn’t yet aged his face (and when he was still whole of sight, Saltzpyre thinks now with no small measure of chagrin). Her hands are warm and soft.

She teaches him then, how to hold her small breasts in his hands, how to bring her nipples to a peak with lips and tongue and fingers. He learns to listen to her soft sighs, to the nuances of her breath when it hitches in her throat, and that the slightest touch of his lips upon her neck could leave her fingers twisted deep into the fabric of his shirt.

She near tortures him as she rocks against his clothed erection, the hardness pressed against her core, telling him to meet her rhythm until he groans into her mouth, pleading until she shushes him with soft noises and just telling him to feel. His prayer beads around her neck glisten in the candlelight with each movement.

His first orgasm feels more like the ecstasy of prayer, blooming underneath his eyelids as his hips twitch underneath her, leaving him feeling buzzed and wet. And she teaches him then, as she peels the clothes from his frame, what she can do with her teeth and tongue as she licks and sucks him clean. He’s still dizzy in the haze of pleasure when she laces his fingers with her own (absently, he presses his lips to her knuckles), guiding him between her legs, telling him how to touch her—how he can bring her to a peak—listening to the inflection building in her throat until her words are no longer words at all when he finds the right spot, fingers slick upon her bud. She buries her face into his shoulder as her hips roll, pushing herself further into his hand, seeking the friction, and when he takes that spot between two fingers, squeezing gently, she cries out loudly into his skin, breaking over him.

He kisses her fiercely, and she catches the side of her mouth as she slings a leg over his hips, taking him inside her upon a gentle thrust, and she lets him lead as instinct overtakes him, moving his hips to pull out and forward again with enough force her small frame clings to his shoulder, his lips at her throat, one hand in her hair, the other wrapped around her waist, unwilling to let go. He does not expect the pleasure to be as intense as it is—warm and close and intimate—and there’s little wonder his faith thinks the act sacred and private, shared only between two, and he has to stifle the joy he feels from it. With each stroke, he tells her words of endearment—of loving promises that they would stay together—and she hums in his ear. He spills himself inside her in one particularly hard thrust with holy words upon his lips, her hands stroking his forehead, his lips, his cheeks. And when their foreheads press together and she reaches for him again later that night, Saltzpyre can only think about his future wife.

When he wakes, immediately, he knows something is wrong. He’s alone, his skin itchy with crusted fluids, and Rosamund is no longer there. He struggles with the sheets and calls out for her, but there is no response, his prayer beads lying tangled next to him. He takes the strands in his hands, before some instinctive, irrational part of him honed by a decade of training flings the shutters open.

There is chaos on the docks below, crimson flowing freely in the street as men and women wept. Carnage decorates the market stands—organs and viscera where the day’s fresh fare would have lain—feminine laughter pealing like a cracked bell off the cobbles, and in some distance, he sees some horned daemon bare-breasted and bloody in the middle of the street, tearing her teeth into a yowling cat before it would forever be silenced.

He’s no doubt it’s Rosamund. He’s no doubt now he’s been played, killing the one man—the Baron’s son—who had provided protection against the Teugen’s dark magic, and letting Bogenhafen fling itself into Chaos. He’d only added to the rising body count.

He curses, flinging on his clothes as he storms down the stairs, the residents of the inn long dead with their throats ripped out—a grisly scene that makes a mockery of drunken revelry.

The Witch Hunters are already out in force, he finds—called by the local Baron who rightfully did not seem to trust Saltzpyre’s word—and they grab him as soon as they see him, hauling him away—Rosamund’s name naught but a scream upon his lips.

 

**The Victim**

The second face he takes to bed is not the second person he would fornicate with, but the only face he remembers out of the handful of women in that time period.

It would be after word of Victor Saltzpyre’s faux paux in Bogenhafen spread rapidly throughout the Empire’s network, quickly reaching the Templars of Sigmar, when they pull him aside back in Altdorf. His captain—a Witch Hunter of thirty years by the name of Karl von Strickland—takes him to a sequestered corner of a crowded and noisy inn, their cloaks pulled low over their heads to keep a scarce profile. He scolds him harshly, reprimanding him for lapse in judgement as Saltzpyre places his head in hands, vowing under a hissed breath that Rosamund Teugen and her family would hang from the noose for their crimes against the Empire.

Strickland takes his arm, almost crushing it in his grip, pulling Saltzpyre across the table to square face to face with him.

“You will do no such thing, Victor,” he snarls, and Saltzpyre bears his teeth. “You are young and still smarting from the death of your Master. However, you have shamed us enough with your decisions, and while the remaining Teugens will be dealt with, you will not be the one to mete out their punishment.”

He shoves him back into his seat, before composing himself, lacing his fingers in front of him, gaze level.

“There will come a time when, if you do not meet your needs in a timely manner, you will find yourself weak against the Ruinous Powers. Many a fallible man finds himself prey to Slaanesh. It is on the Grand Theogonist’s recommendation that you take care of these needs.”

Strickland reaches inside his traveller’s cloak to pull out a piece of parchment to slide across the table to the younger Witch Hunter, a list of taverns scrawled on the front.

“There are many a brothel throughout the Empire who cater to these needs and are known to be discreet about our profession. In order to avoid further errors, make your patronage to one of them.”

Saltzpyre’s upper lip curls in disgust, his mouth opening in protest.

“That is not a suggestion, Brother Saltzpyre. You will make your patronage to one of these taverns. Their fare are not of the pretty sort, and perhaps that will keep your tongue in your mouth and your brain in your head.”

It leaves him furious and angry, all but spitting hellfire when Strickland leaves. It’s but a year later when he’s on the trail of a merchant making human sacrifices to Tzeentch—holed up in a small, dingy inn—that there’s a knock at the door to his room. The intruder is a young child of twelve, he surmises, and the youth hands a letter to him but does not leave upon his delivery.

“From Herr Strickland, Sir,” the youth informs him, the pitch and timbre pinning the child as a young boy just barely before his Dooming.

Saltzpyre tilts his head as he unfolds the parchment, looking at the gold ringlets and wide eyes, hair long enough that, in the right lighting, would have made the boy look like a young girl.

_Brother Saltzpyre,_

_My contacts inform me you have still to make your patronage at my recommendation. Is it a matter of taste? I send to you then, one of my personal favorites. He goes by Bahn, and is attentive to every need of the flesh. Young boys, after all, have not developed the fallacies of man and are better at holding their tongue than any common brothel girl ever will._

_—K.v.S._

Saltzpyre is so thoroughly disgusted at the thought that when the boy looks up at him through dark lashes, he digs into his pocket to shove three gold coins into his hands and shoves him out the door.

It is with no small manner of reluctance does Saltzpyre pay a visit to the closest tavern on Strickland’s list a month later, choosing whatever brothel girl is first to take his coin, simply to get his Captain and his “gifts” off his back. She gets down on her knees, draws him from his pants, and services him with her mouth.

He visits one of those taverns once a year after, dragging himself to them as if it were some unpleasant task to be done, asking for anyone who will take his payment—voluptuous or small, he does not care—and sets about the chore with a mechanical-like precision. He pays, he spends himself on the floor after they work him with their hands and tongue, and he leaves. Easier for the both of them, he thinks. He cares not for their names, or faces, or stories, and remembers none of them.

That changes when, twelve years later, after he’s just lost an eye and been played yet again by his clientele, he’s in Wurtbad and meets a prostitute at one of those taverns by the name of Lisl. She’s a thin woman still new to her trade, where the the horrors of man hadn’t yet reached or eyes or where the filth of the brothel hadn’t yet stained her nightdress.

He shoves a gold coin into her palm upon his entrance, and she smiles, taking his hand as she leads him to one of the back rooms. But he sees no gesture of tenderness there—doesn’t even register it—his demeanor angry, thick as it clings like a dark cloud around him, and all he can think of is the false eye in his skull, the skittering green claws of assassin rats on stone, and of bodies swinging upon the noose in the night. It leaves him incensed and vengeful against the entire world, and how dare this woman treat him so gently because they were all against him in the end.

He near chokes her with his cock that night, watching her gag and retch around him, spittle forming around her mouth as she grips his thighs, his hand vice-like around the base of her skull as he fucks her mouth. He spends himself in the valley her breasts as she pants, looking up at him with large brown eyes, something worrying her brow.

“Not so rough, _Herr_ Saltzpyre. Please.”

He snarls at her request, tugging her up his body, and she reaches up, taking his face in her hand as she rises on her toes to meet him…

The Witch Hunter smashes her face-first into the wall instead, dimly aware of the sound of her nose breaking against the force of impact.

“You dare touch me?” It’s a hiss of breath against her ear as she wobbles unsteadily on her feet—disoriented. “You dare touch a vessel of Sigmar’s wrath?”

His forearm wraps around her throat, pulling her back against him, her back a hard enough arch she cries out, and he cuts the laces on her corset with a knife. Presses the edge against her carotid artery to silence her when she protests.

When he sinks into her in one harsh motion, he’s met with enough resistance he has to force her upper body against the wall, his free hand digging into her hip. She begs and pleads with each thrust, splinters in her palms from the roughshod wood of the windowsill, but there is no joy in it—no ecstasy that he remembers vaguely from Rosmund’s bed. It’s too similar to the pleads he hears from heretics about to be burned at the stake—too similar to the daughter held in a vampire’s thrall as he strung her up at the entrance of some godforsaken town in the middle of the Empire, watching her choke to death before her neck snapped.

“You vile, foul, fetid wretch. Only the guilty bear pain.” He hurls invectives at her with each motion of his hips against her, feeling her hiccuping breath through her back, and it sickens him—how this weak creature made for nothing but the pleasure of man would seek her innocence through his body. How could Sigmar’s subjects be so unrighteous.

Dimly, he’s aware of his knife digging into her skin as his hands shake, and he draws blood, the tension between his legs rising to a fever pitch when he loses all control.

He clamps a hand over her mouth to silence her weeping when he comes inside her, a low groan into her neck as his vision whites out.

Saltzpyre returns to himself slumped against her, Lisl weeping silently against the palm of his hand, blood trickling down her neck, and he jerks away as if burned, watching as she sinks to the floor, curling in on herself. He does not offer her any condolences or words of apology for his aggression, save for the additional coin he places at her trembling feet after he cleans himself in the basin shoved to the far corner of the room. And when he leaves, no one asks why he exits without her when he closes the door shut behind him.

He vomits in an alley behind the tavern, faced with the prospect that he enjoyed it.

 

**The Fire Witch**

The third face he takes to bed is Sienna Fuegonasus. She’s as heretical as they come, high on life and the winds of her magic, and since their first meeting, they’ve nursed an unspoken tension that he holds tense in his shoulder blades and causes the to blood rush between his ears. He’s held her prisoner for a year, her blatant disrespect to his position and her station in the world building his anger to a fever pitch as she tested his boundaries. And while Saltzpyre had sworn to himself, after the incident in Wurtbad, he would not take another to bed, Sienna’s verbal barbs and penchant for violence pulls at the limits of his self-control.

Their first tryst is violent and bloody, still licking their wounds from the destruction of the Skittergate; their argument intense and loud, echoing off the stone walls of his quarters. He doesn’t remember who threw the first blow or why it even happened, but harsh words quickly devolved into fists, leather-clad knuckles crashing into his jaw. He retaliates by locking his hands around her throat and almost throwing her back into the nearest wall. He doesn’t stop to think of the consequences—doesn’t stop to think that even here, surrounded by weapons and instruments of torture and destruction, that with only a few scant words she could melt his bones into a puddle.

They fight and grapple, and at some point, her palms are pressing against the bare skin of his stomach underneath leather and chainmail, and he’s fisted a hand in her hair to press her face-first into the filthy cobbles of the floor hard enough he feels the strands strain and break from scalp at the root. Suddenly, there’s no longer enough time to remove their clothes, save buttons and ties, as he mounts her like an animal from behind. She’s almost twenty years his senior, and somewhere—mixed in between the harsh grunts and rhythmic pants—he can already hear his superiors’ disdain.

He fucks her hard next to a plague monk’s corpse.

It’s after, when he realizes what he’s done and pursing his lips at the bruises on her skin, the blood running between the join of her nose and mouth, and she’s laughing about it ( “I haven’t had someone shag me like that in ages!” ) does he realize Sienna Fuegonasus enjoys the pain.

The following trysts are planned—something Sienna plants in his head—sometimes nothing more than raw physicality, other times things darker and more complicated where he’s got her strung up on a wooden cross with a whip biting into her back hard enough she gets high from it. It’s new territory for him—a world he refused to allow himself to play with because it would bring admittance that he was just as depraved as all the mutants he had punished in the past—no better than street addicts and sadists who paid brothel girls on the promise of pain. But he’s a quick study, and Sienna’s consent is loud and wanting as she convinces him to push her further and higher—because if she could not make herself burn, then Gods, someone else had to. In a manner of weeks, he learns how to bring her to a climax so hard and so fast that she shakes when he unshackles her from the wood, pressing impulsive sobs into his shoulder, arms wrapped around the back of his neck as his fingers stroke the hairs at her nape, pressing his lips to the top of her head.

The arrangement is something they don’t speak of—though he’s sure she’s aware of its nuances by now—and he never approaches her for his needs. Saltzpyre has never instigated any of their affairs, unsure whether asking for physicality were somehow taboo or whether it would bring reality that their entire situation would leave them both dead should his superiors find out. But she has an appetite enough for them both, and he hardly has the strength to deny her when her chaos-laced fingers hold his heart in their grip.

At some point, when Sienna asks him again for the promise of pain and he decides not to relieve any tension of his own, he notices he’s no longer doing these things for his own benefit. And somewhere, in those sessions, he realizes with a sinking feeling in his gut, he wants her beyond the lust and violence and battles for control.

With dread, he awaits the turning point that will inevitably lead him to ruin.

It’s two months later, when she shows up at his door three hours before sunrise looking haggard and worn, something a touch unseated in her eyes and covered in Skaven and Northlander blood, laughing bitterly about the fact she had just burned down an entire forest to feel the magical high and how that still hadn’t been enough. She tells him Thyrus Gormann thinks she flirts with death.

“Morr awaits for us all, Darling, and I’m just not ready for him.”

She kisses him for the first time then, something hot and yearning and heartbreaking as she smoothes the lines in his face with her thumbs smearing red onto the stark white of his skin, and he lets her—lets her press him into the cramped confines of his sleeping quarters that clearly aren’t big enough for two. He has to lay with one knee up, she has to straddle his hips with one hand clutching the headboard, and he has to crane his neck to meet her next kiss to make it work, but despite the discomfort, it’s the first time in almost two decades has Victor Saltzpyre felt truly wanted. There is no pain here—no roughness or violence—not when he feels flesh on flesh, hips moving softly over his raised thigh as she gently rakes her fingernails down his shorn scalp. He feels the weight of her breasts in his hands—ligaments weighed down and worn with age. She arches hard against him when he tastes the valley of her skin and takes a nipple underneath his tongue, a low moan on her lips, and he watches—dimly—as she runs her fingertips down his shoulder and the line of his arm to trace lightly over her stomach before dipping between her legs to spread her wetness there, pressing against her core.

He feels her fingers work against herself and he raises his head from her breasts, tilting his head to press his lips softly against hers, and she meets him halfway, featherlight in her distraction. She cries out against his mouth when his hand joins her own.

Sienna lets him take over then, opting instead to press slick fingertips to the line of his jaw as she rolls her hips into his palm, kissing him open-mouthed and hot against her movement. The rhythm she sets is not one of quick, harsh fulfillment, but one she takes her time with, and she when she comes, it is small and light where she jerks against his fingers once before smothering the groan with his mouth and tightening her fingers on the headboard.

She repays him by pressing heated palms to his hips and taking him in her mouth.

It is not the first time she has done such a thing, of course. But before, where he all but towered over her, snarling wicked, vile debasements as she sucked him fiercely to completion upon her knees, here she works over him in a slow exploration. It leaves Saltzpyre panting on the precipice, the muscles in his stomach pulled taut, teeth digging into his lower lip as he fights the sounds in his throat, pressing the back of his fist to his eyes.

It’s when she has him on the edge, near enough to release he sees stars blossom before his sight, that he gives her head a tug, jerking her mouth away from his length, hand convulsing in her hair.

“Do not lead me into temptation, Witch.” It’s said in between heavy pants for breath, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. And then, more softly, barely a whisper: “Not yet.”

She hovers over him when they join, one hand fisted in the sheets near his head, the other tilting his face towards her as she lowers herself upon him.

He watches her brow furrow as her body gives, seated fully—their hips flush—and her eyes flutter and he feels a pulse—a shadow of her near-orgasm just from that—her body tightening suddenly around him. He hisses through clenched teeth, thighs shaking in his restraint to keep still before he feels her body relax again, and she laughs in low in her throat when he opens her eyes again, leaning forward to press her mouth to his chest before rising. Her tongue skims over a nipple, and he bites back a choked curse, body arching, the pupil of his remaining eye blown wide.

“You look bloody gorgeous like that, Saltzpyre.”

Their mouths meet at the first roll of her hips, and he tastes himself salty on her tongue before he rises to meet her, the kiss melting into nothing more than hot breaths against each other’s mouths. There’s no fight this time when he thrusts against her, his hands against the sides of her face, locking her gaze to him, their motion a gentle rocking and nothing more until he feels her eyelashes brush against his cheekbones when she buries her moans against his shoulder as she reaches completion once more, clenching around him, wet against his pelvis. She mutters something into his flesh that he can’t interpret and he smells charred linen and scorched sheets next to him, runes dancing underneath her skin.

He’s overcome with something then, arms clutching her tight enough against his chest as he thrusts hard into her once, twice, three times, stifling a cry into the hollow of her throat when he comes—a bright white pressure point of release. Dimly, he’s aware of his voice in his ears whispering something that sounds remotely like her name.

There’s sweat beading down his chin when he comes down from it, fingers twitching over her ribcage, heart beating hard enough it threatens to burst from his chest. She rises, extracting herself from his grip on a grunt before curling against his frame, cramped against the wall before she laughs, palms stroking the sides of his neck.

“Gormann always did say I’d go out in a blaze.”

Something grips at his heart then, and he turns to her, his good eye narrowed as the realization strikes him.

“The Chaos has finally tainted you.”

“Very good, Darling! You’ll find me naught but a pile of cinders soon enough.”

He keeps his arm around her shoulders as she dozes against him that night, while his soul screams to his god wondering how Sigmar—again—could be so cruel.

—

Two years later, Kruber finds him in an inn still dug into his morning prayers. It’s taken longer than usual, and the mercenary waits for him patiently, hands behind his back. The Witch Hunter kneels by his bedside, elbows placed upon the freshly made sheets, head bowed, eyes closed, palms together. His prayers are silent, though he moves his lips, and they brush against the golden prayer beads spilling from betwixt his interlaced fingers.

Kruber knows he’s finished long before Saltzpyre unfolds his hands, but does not mention the delay. Far be it from him to question his employer.

Saltzpyre rises and makes the sign of the hammer before replacing the prayer beads around his neck underneath his chainmail.

“Was it today, Sir?”

Saltzpyre checks the flintlock on his pistols before attaching them to the holster at his belt.

“Yes. Though I’m sure she would not approve of her name spoken among Sigmarite prayers.”

Kruber purses his lips, debating the phrasing of his next question, ever mindful of the Witch Hunter’s temper as he watched him turn a vase on a shelf, running his glove around the vessel’s lip to remove any hidden dust.

“If she were still here, Sir—Sienna, I mean—do you think eventually you’d—”

Saltzpyre places his hat low over his eyes as he brushes past the other man, hand patting his shoulder as he passed.

“Sigmar works in strange and mysterious ways, Kruber. It is not our right to question his judgement.”

A bag of ash hangs at his belt with the rest of his trinkets.

In those two years since, Victor Saltzpyre has not taken another woman to bed.

 


End file.
